I am afraid I am wearing out my welcome here with these puppy pictures. The problem is, we keep visiting them, and they keep being so dang cute, and there you are. I will try not to be so verbose this time, as I am afraid, again, of wearing you out.
And to those who were wonderful and kind enough to respond to my request yesterday, I send you deep thanks. I needed to hear from friends yesterday – a sort of hiding under the bed day. And your notes kept me from sagging too far.
This installment covers the remarkable event of my dragging this skeptical man to see what are no longer furry worms or frenetic Guinea pigs.
This is not a puppy. This is Jetta, walking away from me in the Autumn evening. This picture is here for two reasons: 1) I like it. 2) To ease any puppy fatigue I may have engendered in the last few days.
This is what we found. A whole kennel full of people who wanted to get out worse than anything. We tried sliding the door open just a v-e-r-y little, but suddenly, the world was full of noses and little paws and wiggling bodies, and they were all loose, running all the heck all over the place. It took fifteen minutes to capture them all, and then to carry them back (like greased pigs, they were) without stepping on the others, who were busy attacking our pant legs and shoes.
Finally, we stuffed six of them back. And the skeptical man finally said,
“Ohhhh, they’re all so cute. Now I want all of them . . . ”
Which I think may mean that now we may move on to calling them “his” puppies.
The man seems to have lost his objectivity.
As you may recall, this is the puppy who knows how to make points.
And this puppy? Just cute. Cute, cute, cute.
Hmmmm.
On to rudimentary collar and leash lessons.
Enthusiastically received.
“Ha!” says the fat puppy.
“I wouldn’t laugh too soon, my friend—”
But we all do well.
Until we can escape.
This is a portrait of the pup now known as Toby.
This is a portrait of the pup now known as Tucker.
The day we visited was the day JoJo was moving the dogs down to her barn property. So into the huge crate all of them went, all eight. And the following five thousand pictures are me, trying to process this wonderful, busy, earnest chaos.
In all of these, Toby is the little black person on the very bottom.
What is it about young animals that speaks so strongly to us? The most cynical among us cannot fail to find these faces, this openness of soul and honest yearning, these direct eyes compelling.
If you cannot see well enough, find something to climb up on. This is Tucker, standing on one of his blue eyed sibs.
If there are teachers or lecturers or parents among you, can you remember ever addressing a room as rapt as this?
These muzzles just knock me out. You can just see Toby.
G, helping JoJo’s dad take down the kennels. It was in the middle of the stormy patch last week. There is nothing lovelier than the high mountain valley in the wild months of transition. Unless it is one neighbor here in the heartLife, helping another.
This is West Mountain, or close enough. This place knocks my eyes out, the lovely red barns, the rich lines of orchard and field. The white fences and the gray road. With the towering shoulder of the mountains behind. I can’t get enough of this place. I couldn’t own it myself—everything up there would be dead and overgrown in a week. But I can love from afar the people who can make this lovely thing in the middle of the desert.
There isn’t enough time or energy in the body to love everything that is lovable, and to keep the immensity of simple beauty ever fresh and forward in mind, that we may never lose hope, that we never lose our base of joy and gratitude as we toil through the minutia that is natural to the mortal sphere. In weeding the orchard, it’s hard to keep this picture in mind, and yet, the picture is built by every small work we do.
Anyway. That’s all the puppy story I have as of now. Next week may tell a different story – you never can tell.
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